Bomb Squad
by FashionFryer
Summary: A bomb in the FBI White Collar Division is never a good thing - especially when Neal is involved. One-shot, complete, I don't own the show or the characters... sadly!


Bomb Squad

He doesn't know how it happened. One minute he was outside the FBI building, the next he was waking up in a dark room. His head hurt and he heard someone near him. He felt the tip of a steal toed shoe harshly kick at his torso, making him roll over onto his back, seeing the gun pointed in his face. He didn't move. Someone grabbed his left arm, on the other side of the first guy, and pulled him up.

He was standing, a guy holding each arm tight. The third putting his gun in the back of his waist band, walking over. The first punch was to the face, right across the jaw. The next to the eye, snapping his head one way then the next. The third to the abdomen, then a kick to the leg. It continued for a few minutes, enough to make him breathless and weak. As his arms were released, he collapsed on the floor. Not strong enough to fight them off when they started taking off his shirt, strapping something to his body.

The FBI White Collar division office was busy. He was making coffee, looking over to his CI's cubicle, which was empty. He was getting that feeling, like something was happening, something he couldn't control. Walking to where Neal should be sitting, he took in the neat and tidy desk. A stack of files on the right, some loose papers on top. He turned one over, seeing a drawing of the suspect from yesterday's case. It was good.

A quiet hush descended over the office. Not enough for silence but enough for Peter to notice. A few people next to the glass doors were staring at the left elevator. He walked forward, trying to see what was happening. Neal was walking out the small space, turning to walk through the doors towards him, opening the doors, stepping in to the open plan office. Now everybody was staring, everyone was silent.

He was black and blue, eye swollen, lip split, bruising on his neck. Dried blood in his hair. He looked to Peter only, staring into his eyes. Peter put his coffee on the nearest desk, stepping closer to him, only to have Neal increase the distance again. He was scared.

He didn't have his usual suit jacket on, but a large green overcoat, zipped up to the neck. No one moved as he slowly took his left hand and began to pull the zip down. Guns were drawn, pointed at him, focused on him. All except Peter's. He stepped forward, glad when Neal didn't move.

The thick black vest on Neal's torso was light up like a Christmas tree. Wires crossing all over, a large touch sensitive screen in the centre. A small device in his right hand, thumb attached to it. It was the most sophisticated explosive and dead man's switch Peter had ever seen.

Hughes spoke first, loud and with authority.

"Everyone out. No one fire a shot, no one make any calls. We need to cut the power, no electronic signals to get into this room. So guns down, out the door, down the stairs, evacuate as you go, now!"

As people did what they were told, Peter motioned for Neal to step away from the door, into the centre of the room. They just looked at each other, the fear evident on both faces. Hughes was at Peter's side by the time Jones and Diana left. They were last, and didn't want to go, but they knew they'd be better co-ordinating the evacuation and bomb squad.

Hughes saw Neal weaver to the right, favouring this leg. He grabbed a chair, walking close to Neal, even as he tried to back away, keeping them both at a safe distance. He put the chair behind him, watched him sit slowly, groaning in pain. He looked at Peter, both worried, just as all the lights went out. The day light lit the room, but cast a shadow.

"Ok Neal. You're going to be ok. I'm here, Peter's here, and we're all going to be ok. We'll get a seat and we'll wait for the bomb squad to get here," he looked at the young man's face, littered with bruising. It was obvious this wasn't his choice, he wasn't a threat, he would do what ever it took to stay alive. Suddenly, something else struck the unit leader, half turning to his agent in charge never taking his eyes off Neal, "Peter, go to your office, and get the key you have for Neal's anklet. Last thing we need is its signal interfering."

Peter's eyes widened, running up to stairs before Hughes had finished. Coming back, he walked right up to Neal, ready to take it off, but Neal pulled his leg away.

"Neal, I have to. I'm not leaving you here, so let me help." His friend gave a half smile, slowly giving his leg over. Peter did it quick, backing away. His boss had already pulled up two chairs, he took one. They sat. In silence.

"What happened Neal?"

"I... I don't really know," his voice was weak, throat sore, "I was leaving here, getting a cab, had a pain in my head, woke up somewhere. Then this happened." He gestured at his face, leading down past the vest to his leg. Peter, clenched his jaw, tensing at the thought. "There was three of them, dropped me off here. I tried to stop them..."

"We know, we know. You didn't mean this. It's ok. Just don't move your thumb."

It took almost an hour for bomb squad to enter the office. Hughes and Peter had been trying to keep Neal awake and lucid. It was clear he was in pain, fighting to stay safe, fighting to keep them safe. Seeing the team – body armour and all – come towards them through the glass doors, Peter stood. After assessing the scene, they told Hughes and Peter to leave. They weren't.

"Ok, Mr Caffery, we will get you out of here in no time. Just stay with us." He was speaking louder than normal, the sound echoing in the empty room.

"Go. Get out, both of you... no point in us all …." he was looking past the man in front of him to Hughes and Peter. Peter looked pissed, not being able to hold back;

"Like hell we are. And you're going to be fine, so don't even think it."

It took time. Lots of time. The bomb squad had to continue to re-evaluate their tactics once seeing the complexity of the vest. By mid-day no progress had been made. He was loosing touch with reality, only knowing he had to keep his thumb down. But once they started working on the vest, they were quick about it. Every now and then he would feel them press a sore spot, trying to hold back his yell of pain. Sometimes he'd manage, sometimes he didn't. Either way, they kept going.

Feeling the vest be lifted from him was like a long-waited weight being lifted. He felt hands on him, his eyes sliding shut. He flinched, but didn't fight. He was suddenly on his back, looking up, he saw Peter hovering over him, talking to someone over his head, his hand on Neal's forehead, thumb rubbing to sooth him. The pain in his leg, abdomen and chest was unbelievable. Before he could try to stop it, the world began to fuzz at the edges, and he slowly sunk into oblivion.

The constant beep, echoing through the room was enough to wake him. The white bedding and numbed pain told him he was in the hospital. Looking to his left, it was confirmed. Peter was sleeping in the arm chair by his bed. He gave the sight a small smile. He moved to sit up more, the blinding pain no longer numb but robbing his breath. The beeping sped up, Peter woken in an instant.

He leaned over his friend, trying to calm him down, telling him to breath, supporting his back and shoulders. As sense returned, Neal looked to him, seeing him retreat to his seat.

"Welcome back, missed you." He smiled at his friend in the bed.

"Thanks," his throat hurt and voice was weak, to small cough that followed brought pain to his chest, "what's the verdict? Not blown up I can see."

"Yeah, avoided that," Peter chuckled, "but you do have five broken ribs – one punctured the lung – and a fractured thigh bone on the left. The rest is mostly scrapes and bruises that'll heal in no time."

But Neal was already drifting back in to sleep.


End file.
